As if there was just the one… HA!

If this is toxic, then I’m slipping under…

Happy Saturday Night!

It was never the actual last day of summer that had me mourning – that officially came after we were already well into the school year anyway. It was those first few days when you could feel the shift in atmosphere indicating the turn – a morning that was suddenly breezy and lacking in heat and warmth which suddenly felt like fall. These days sadly came in early August – when our last full month of summer was beginning. It was a reminder that fall would follow soon enough – and in these hasty last days of my 40’s, I feel time moving even quicker.

The gardens have just begun the shift. I’ve been watering the ostrich ferns almost daily in the hope of keeping them green for as long a possible, but this is the month when I stop trying. Nature will govern the decline and inevitable arrival of slumber for the plants; in August I put down the sword and let the battle go. The ferns have put on a lovely show, even if it feels shorter than usual, and I’m sure they are worn out from sticking it out in the glorious heat and sun we’ve had. There comes a point when you must accept the fact that nothing in the garden lasts forever, that there is a season for everything, and the season of slumber, while still a ways out, is coming eventually. It’s a tragic waste to allow that outcome to shade the summer that remains, but I’m not quite evolved enough not to be bothered by it.

Sitting in the church where I sat during the last few weeks of Dad’s life, I recalled the days of that sorrowful summer. I cried a lot then. It was an intentional outpouring of grief and sadness and gratitude all at once, a necessary part of mourning that I finally, after years of suppressing such emotions, allowed myself to feel and experience and inhabit. Somehow I understood that if I didn’t allow it out then, it would remain with me much longer, growing into an ache that might be dull, but would never dissipate. So I cried. In the church. Out on the street. In my car. Out in the backyard. In the shower. Wherever and whenever grief would rear its head, I would face it and acknowledge it and feel it, letting it wash over me, sometimes overwhelming me, and knowing that it was necessary. More than that, it was welcome – it made me realize that though Dad had gone, his love remained – how else to explain such intense feelings of loss and sadness?

Today, exactly two years after he died, I’m not forlorn or destroyed by it. I miss him, of course, but there is a sense of peace and beauty that I felt in his last weeks here that still remains. In so many ways, I still feel my father with me, and it has been a comfort making that happen and keeping him as part of my life.

When I’ve had a rough day at work, I feel him with me.

When I feel attacked by strangers or people I’ve known my entire life, I feel him with me.

When I feel elated and joyous and busting with excitement over something, I feel him with me.

When I talk to Mom or spend time with the family, I feel him with me.

When I sit down to my daily meditation, part of my mantra is still this: breathing in, I know am alive – breathing out, I know my Dad is alive within me.

Two years after he departed this world, I still feel him with me.

One of our favorite visitors – the yellow finch – has been frequenting the stands of our cup plant, as its flowers are already ripening into seeds. These seem to be happy birds, if I may get all anthropomorphic on your ass, and they always bring us joy at seeing them this time of the year. They’ll stay until the fall, picking away at the towering seed pods until there are none left.

I like how their striking yellow color matches that of the cup plant’s flowers – a doubly-cheery explosion of sun-like glory. It’s the ideal color palette for the end of July, just as summer will begin its own ripening.

Our first swallowtail of the season appeared a few days ago, gloriously fluttering its pretty wings about the majestic cup plant stand, where it was joined by several buzzing bumblebees.

These beautiful creatures are a sign that we have reached the zenith of summer.

Enjoy the moment.

Feverishly warm, the shades of these flowers shift when the evening light departs and the warm artificial bulbs glow deeper into the night. Summer burns at both ends, inside and out. It is worth a look rather than a lot of words.

Twenty-five years ago it felt like I was finally coming into my own, and at the height of that July my friends and I made our way to the tip of Cape Cod – that magical land of Provincetown. This photo was taken on that vacation – my friend Kristen can be seen in the water, examining some shell or rock she had just found. On the radio, ‘Desert Rose’ by Sting played, bringing other lands to mind. It hints of future seasons, and possible fall themes… but first, summer memories in the links found hidden within the lyrics.

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of fire
These dreams that tie two hearts that will never die
Near the flames
The shadows play in the shape of the man’s desire

This desert rose
Whose shadow bears the secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

And now she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realize that nothing’s as it seems

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of rain
I lift my gaze to empty skies above
I close my eyes
The rare perfume is the sweet intoxication of love

The heat and sun of this week, and the calendar week itself, brought my Dad’s final days to mind, and on a lunch break the other day I found myself walking to the church where I sat during his last week when I was trying to hold myself together at the office. It no longer stings like it once did, it no longer aches as much, but when the air and sun hit like they did two years ago, it brings me back to that sad time. As always, the melancholy is not unwelcome: it is proof that love survives, and that my Dad is still here with me.

There have been signs, and I’ve been attuned to them. A cardinal flitting about the backyard. A commercial that played ‘You’ve Got The Magic Touch’ – a song my Dad used to sing out loud when he was in a playful mood. Each was a wink from the past, bringing happy memories of my father to the present.

As the anniversary of his death approaches, and summer remains turned to high, I take the days quietly, thoughtfully. It’s the safest and surest way to proceed when Mercury is in retrograde and the world has me in its crosshairs. I feel my Dad with me, and I know everything is going to be ok.

This MacBook is on its last legs, so who knows how many posts I’ll able to complete this week. If it goes silent for a bit, you’ll understand why. In the meantime, here’s a nifty recap of the week for you to bookmark…

The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale brought us back two decades (as seen in the featured pics here, outtakes from the original collection) and the week felt nostalgic.

When they threaten former-President Obama with an investigation, two words: Presidential immunity.

A letter to my Godson on his 3rd birthday.

Summer buzzing.

A charmed weekend with my favorite half-century club.

25 years ago I met the man I would marry.

Before and after Andy.

His and his and yours.

Island lighthouse.

The next FAFO Award for the MAGA crowd who’s been begging for the release of the Epstein files for years.

I remember this too.

The leftovers.

Getting attacked on all fronts is absolutely nothing new for me. Happily, in these spaces, truth still wins out in the end.

Shedding selves was an integral component of the Divine Diva Tour twenty years ago – and remains so to this day.

Beating oneself up takes a certain sort of brutal style, a particular stylized brutality.

A quick word on dips.